


and i know that i'll lose but it's not living (if it's not with you)

by peterpan_in_neverland



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M, God i hate the word vaginal, Light Angst, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, and i accidentally became obsessed with it, and im posting it today for bee's birthday, and some emotional bonding, but it is a birthday fic, but it must be done, gratuitous references to Harry Potter and Bollywood, happy birthday Bhargavi!, i dont speak hindi, i finished it literal weeks ago, i know all the words to kuch kuch hota hai now, i love you so much, i watched a Bollywood movie for this, im posting this while im in class, im so excited that im in a new fandom, im sorry, in my opinion, it shifts a lot, it was three hours long, its an accident, its in hindi, just wow, like sprinklings, new fandom!, okay tags, so its allowed to be that way, so you all better enjoy it, this fic is extremely out of character in my opinion, this is porn with a plot, unclear point of views, woooooooooooooooow guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29860422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterpan_in_neverland/pseuds/peterpan_in_neverland
Summary: “Like-like a statue,” she says, “haven’t you been dying to snoop around my home all day?”“I’ve really been dying to get out of a shipping container all day, actually,” he says, chuckling at the narrow-eyed frown she gives him, “almost literally when you consider the gunshot wound.” He lifts his injured arm, and Ziva scoffs.“It is a scratch, Tony,” Ziva says, turning away from him and side stepping into the kitchen, “probably by one of the crates, because you are clumsy.”“Ducky didn't find any splinters in the wound, Ziva, this is definitely a bullet hole,” he says, quickly, on exhale, “also, I don’t think I can get my jacket off, because it really hurts to lift my arm.”She looks at him side-eyed, over the counter bar that separates her kitchen from her living room. She walks over, and puts her hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eye— she is shorter than him, and has to tip her head back. “I will help you get your jacket off, but I will not feed you.”“I wouldn't want you to,” he says, groaning when she pulls at his sleeve, tugging the jacket off of his arm and shaking it out.--OR; post "Boxed In," Ziva cooks Tony dinner.
Relationships: Ziva David/Anthony DiNozzo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	and i know that i'll lose but it's not living (if it's not with you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magnetichearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetichearts/gifts).



> A few things:
> 
> 1) Ziva speaks multiple languages. I do not. I speak English, French, and very, very poor 'Ōlelo. There are times in this fic where she could have spoken Hebrew, but I genuinely could not find phonetic translations for Hebrew anywhere. Same thing with Pashto. I was very irritated.  
> 2) This is quite out of character for both of them, I was just having fun and truly serving to what I thought Bhargavi would enjoy (its her birthday, but more on that later) so it may be very unrealistic for both of them. Also, I am not Jewish, but Ziva is, and I tried to incorporate Jewish things into this fic for her. Please tell me if I did it wrong. I did some research and looked into it all as I usually do, but nothing beats actual people I can ask questions of.  
> 3) Happy birthday, Bhargavi. I know you hate your birthday and all of that, but I am excited and I hope you enjoy your day, your birthday, and your fic, both together and separately. I love you real much. Happy birthday <3  
> 4) I hope you enjoy!

“I have to admit,” Tony says, eyes scanning over Ziva’s apartment, “this isn't what I pictured when you offered to cook me dinner.”

“What were you picturing, Tony?” she asks, hanging her jacket on a peg by the door and kicking her shoes off, setting them on a rack set into the wall. “Immediate removal of clothing?”

“More like a dungeon and a car battery with jumper cables attached,” he admits, following her lead and toeing his shoes off, “this looks like a draft set for  _ Full House.”  _

“And you look like a reject extra for  _ Die Guard.”  _

_ “Die Hard,  _ Ziva,” he corrects, and Ziva groans, tossing her head back and rolling her eyes, “yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.”

_ “Yippee-ki-yay?”  _ she repeats, furrowing her brows and looking at him strangely. She sets her bag down on a heavy-looking wooden cabinet pushed against the wall in the foyer of her apartment, and tilts her head as she looks at him. “Why are you standing there like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like-like a statue,” she says, “haven’t you been dying to snoop around my home all day?”

“I’ve really been dying to get out of a shipping container all day, actually,” he says, chuckling at the narrow-eyed frown she gives him, “almost literally when you consider the gunshot wound.” He lifts his injured arm, and Ziva scoffs. 

“It is a scratch, Tony,” Ziva says, turning away from him and side stepping into the kitchen, “probably by one of the crates, because you are clumsy.”

“Ducky didn't find any splinters in the wound, Ziva, this is definitely a bullet hole,” he says, quickly, on exhale, “also, I don’t think I can get my jacket off, because it really hurts to lift my arm.”

She looks at him side-eyed, over the counter bar that separates her kitchen from her living room. She walks over, and puts her hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eye— she is shorter than him, and has to tip her head back. “I will help you get your jacket off, but I will not feed you.”

“I wouldn't want you to,” he says, groaning when she pulls at his sleeve, tugging the jacket off of his arm and shaking it out.

“You have dandruff,” she says, wrinkling her nose, smacking her hand against the material,  _ “horrible  _ dandruff, oh my God,” she adds, and laughs.

“It's rude to make fun of your guest,” Tony says, watching her hang his jacket next to hers, and suddenly, the air feels thicker— stranger, like the knowledge that she has Tony alone in her house is beginning to hit her. She shakes her head quickly, and turns back to find Tony poking at her bookshelf. 

“What are you doing?” she asks, pushing her weight onto the balls of her feet, so she can look over his shoulder. He is slowly sliding his finger over the spines of her books. 

“Why are all of these so pristine?” he asks, and turns to look at her. Their faces are too close, and she steps back. “Wait, have you not been able to read this whole time? Have you hidden your inability to read? I have so many questions.”

“I am able to read,” she says, patting his cheek, “I am able to read in ten languages. How many can you read in?”

He gets that look, the Tony-esque look of defeat, and his smile tilts down. “Only one,” he admits, then tilts his head to the side, “well, maybe one and a half, if you count mostly passable Italian.” 

“I am fluent in Italian,” she says, ducking back into the kitchen, pulling a pan from a rack above the stove, setting it on a burner.  _ “Io ne so più di te.”  _

He looks at her blankly, sliding into a stool pushed against the counter. “I don’t know what you said, but I’m positive it was mean.”

“No, it was just the truth,” she says, looking at him over her shoulder, “though, the truth can be mean, sometimes.”

_ “Sì,”  _ he agrees, and she smiles at him, one corner of her mouth tilting up. 

“Is that the only Italian word you know?” she asks, and he nods, looking ashamed. She lets out a short laugh, and turns back to the counter, pulling a knife from the knife block and slicing into a tomato.

“What are you making?” Tony asks, leaning over the counter to try to catch a glimpse of the food, but Ziva sidesteps to block his view.

“Italian.”

“What  _ kind  _ of Italian, Officer David?” he asks, deliberately pushing her buttons, and she turns around to narrow her eyes at him in annoyance.

“Pasta, Tony,” she answers, blowing out a breath in a  _ peuh  _ noise, “I don’t usually make Italian, so I am going with something a little more simple.”

“It's spaghetti, isn't it?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at her, “I think it’s spaghetti. Am I right that it’s spaghetti? Did you decide to make spaghetti?”

“Yes!” she says, half shouting, and gesturing with the knife in a way that frightens Tony enough to make him lean backwards, out of artery-nicking range. “Yes, I am making spaghetti, because I do not want to make a more complicated dish and risk messing it up in front of a man that is so obnoxiously Italian that he introduces himself as  _ Tony DiNozzo, Italian Stallion.”  _ She pitches her voice low in an imitation of him that makes him laugh deep in his throat.

“Oh, Ziva, you simple culinary woman,” Tony says, clicking his tongue and setting the stool back on all four of its legs, “I knew you just wanted to impress me.”

She laughs, hanging her head, and when he looks up again, she is carefully balancing the knife against his Adam's apple. It is not particularly sharp, but he holds his hands up anyway. “Knew this was a setup to murder me.”

“You’d be lucky to die by my blade,” she says, and clicks her tongue, “but I will lower it, and you will not make fun of my cooking again.”

“I will not,” he agrees, watching as she lowers the knife carefully, “even though you holding a knife to my throat is particularly thrilling, in a terrifying sort of way.”

She makes a particularly sultry noise, something between a growl and a meow, and turns back to her cutting board. Tony has always liked the noise of a knife hitting a cutting board, and Ziva chopping up tomatoes is no exception. 

“So… do I just sit here and watch you while you cook and listen to you threaten me?” Tony asks, propping the elbow of his good arm against the counter. “Because, that's about one half of a normal day.”

“I do not threaten you that much, Tony,” Ziva says, lifting the cutting board and scraping the diced tomatoes into the pan. There is tomato paste in it already, simmering over an electric blue flame, making a thick bubbling noise. 

“You threaten me more than a normal amount, which is not promising, considering you’re my coworker and our agency would be the one investigating my murder—”

“Tony, for the love of God, go snoop around my apartment,” Ziva says, whacking him on the hand with the back of a wooden spoon, “I do not care anymore, snoop, pry into my secrets, anything to get you out of my back while I cook.”

“It’s off, Ziva,” Tony says, “off your back. Not out of.”

“Be quiet,” Ziva snaps, waving the spoon dangerously. “Just, do  _ something  _ that gets you out—  _ off  _ of my back. Play solitaire.” 

“I’m gonna snoop,” he says, spinning off of the stool and sauntering over to her bookshelf. Most of them are classics— Shakespeare’s complete works,  _ Little Women,  _ a box set of Jane Austen's novels, and two sets of the  _ Harry Potter  _ series, in English and Hebrew. “How many Hebrew translations of smashing success novels do you have?”

“All of my favourites— but most of them are in my room. I read before I go to bed,” she answers, stirring the spaghetti sauce with the same spoon she had used to hit him. “Because I know how to read.”

“Gonna go find your bedroom now, okay, bye,” he says, ducking backwards into a hallway, drawing out the  _ y-e  _ in  _ bye.  _

“Stay out of my nightstand,” Ziva shouts from the kitchen, with the sound of a knife stabbing into a cutting board, “it is not for you.”

“Do I want it to be?”

She barks out a laugh, and clicks her tongue loudly. “I don’t know, Tony,” she says, and peaks her head out from the kitchen. Her ponytail swings with the momentum. “Do you?”

He winks, and disappears into her bedroom, flicking on a light by the door and absorbing the room.

The walls are dark green in here, a strong opposition to the tan colour everything else is painted in, and Tony scrapes his fingernails against the paint, a horrible habit from his childhood that he was never able to drop. There is a  _ mezuzah  _ by her door frame and a Star of David craft made of painted popsicle sticks and glitter hanging above it. Clothes tossed haphazardly on the bed, folded on top of an upright piano pushed against the wall by the door, and spilling out of a hamper next to a dresser feel insanely out of character for Ziva and her neat desk, but he lets it go, eyes darting to the books stacked on her nightstand, next to an empty glass of water and a package of ballpoint pens. 

He walks over, picking one up and smoothing his thumb down the spine. The title is in Hebrew, but the cover makes it look like a classic. There are dogeared pages and scribbles in the margins, underlined phrases and circled letters, and it makes Tony wish he knew Hebrew.

“It’s  _ Sense and Sensibility,”  _ Ziva says, resting her chin on his shoulder, “not my pretty English copy— my beloved childhood Hebrew copy.” 

“Yeah, I figured as much from the not-English alphabet,” he says, and sets the book down, looking horizontally at the other titles on her nightstand.

“I will give you anything you want if you can guess even one of those books correctly,” Ziva says, and he jerks up straight, spinning around to look her in the eye.

“Anything?” he asks, raising an eyebrow and looking her up and down. “Even a peek into your nightstand?”

“Even that,” she promises, and pats his chest gently. “Now, guess. I want to see how wrong you are.”

“You really think I’m gonna be wrong?”

“I wouldn’t wager a look inside of my nightstand if I was not confident,” she says, folding her arms over her chest and smirking, “because, honestly, you are more of a movie man, and—”

“This is  _ Moby Dick,”  _ he says, holding up a paperback book with blue polka dots, “by Herman Melville.” 

_ “Shit,”  _ Ziva curses, and Tony raises his eyebrows, “how did you know that?”

“I read an English copy with this exact cover in high school,” he says, smiling like he has solved an unsolvable case, “cultural links, hmm?”

“I despise you,” she says, snatching the book and tossing it onto the dresser behind her.

“And I can rest comfortably in the knowledge that I did all I could to make you despise me, dear Ziva.” He puts his good hand over his heart, smiling benefactorily, eyes closed.

“Ugh, fine!” she shouts, kicking one of the legs of her bed, “look through my nightstand, expose my shame—”

“—Ziva—”

“—but if you tell McGee about what is in there, not only will I kill you, but I will let McGee plan the funeral.”

“... Maybe I  _ don’t  _ want to look in your nightstand,” Tony says, eyes darting in the direction of the nightstand regardless, “wait, why just McGee? Why not Abby, or Gibbs?”

“Because you would not tell Gibbs, and Abby already knows what is in my nightstand,” Ziva says, flicking her eyebrows up for a moment, before leaving her bedroom, a cloud of garlic wafting in in her wake. 

“Why does Abby know?” Tony asks, following her into the kitchen and making an impromptu decision to never tell her that her cooking smells amazing, “Ziva, why does Abby know?”

“Girls tell other girls their secrets quite often, Tony,” Ziva answers, stirring the pot of pasta and pulling a single noodle from the pot and offering it to him.

“What is this, my meal?” he asks, but takes the noodle regardless.

“I want you to test it— how done it is,” she says, sticking her tongue out, but smiling after he tries it and gives her a thumbs up, “good?”

“Yes, very good,” he says, and she raises an eyebrow, clicking her tongue at him.

“Ooh, very good, eh?” she echoes, dumping the pot of noodles into a strainer, shaking it gently, “the Italian Stallion approves of my Italian food.”

“I really love that you have internalized my nickname being the Italian Stallion,” Tony says, jumping when her microwave oven beeps. She makes an  _ ah, ah  _ sound and motions to a dark red oven mitt, and he takes it, slipping it on and pulling a small rack of garlic bread from the toaster oven. 

“I know that is the name of the actor that you like,” she says. “Put the baking sheet on the counter on top of the hot pads, please.”

“These things are called baking sheets?” Tony asks, his back brushing against hers as she moves to empty the strainer of pasta back into the pot, and it sends tingles over his skin, “I mean, it makes sense, but I didn’t expect a name so self explanatory.”

“What?” Ziva asks, at a loss for anything else, turning to look at him after turning off the burners on the stove. “I just…  _ what?”  _

“I just never knew what they were called,” he says, and shrugs, “not like I did a lot of baking growing up.”

Ziva makes a  _ hmph  _ noise and turns back to the stove, stirring some butter and salt into the noodles before grabbing plates from her cabinet. “Help yourself— there are bottled waters in the fridge, and some orange juice, if that’s what you like.”

“Don’t you have wine?” 

“Why do you want wine?”

“Because I’m the Italian Stallion,” Tony tells her, cocking his head and earning an impressive eye roll.

“It is cheap,” Ziva says, standing on her tiptoes to pull a bottle from the top of the fridge, “my landlord bought it for me when I moved in, but I did not have a reason to open it.”

“What about the dinner party I wasn’t invited to?” Tony asks, taking the bottle from her to open it himself. “You figure that that would be the proper occasion, even though I wasn’t there to make it a real party.”

“Ducky brought a wine from his wine basement,” Ziva answers, shrugging and pulling two wine glasses from the same cabinet that holds her plates.

“Technically, it's wine  _ cellar, _ but wine basement works well enough, I guess,” Tony says, and turns around with the newly uncorked bottle of wine. “This smells like grocery store wine.”

“As opposed to…” Ziva starts, holding her wine glass up and letting him fill it for her.

“Winery wine,” he answers, filling up his own glass and setting the bottle down. He takes a sip— definitely cheap, but good nonetheless— then hands the glass to Ziva. “Take this to the table, please?”

“Just once,” she says, skirting around him and setting their glasses down, across from each other. “You can only take two pieces of garlic toast, by the way, I made two for each of us.”

“I’m the Italian Stallion, though,” Tony argues, chewing on a meatball he must have eaten off his plate. “The Italian Stallion deserves extra pieces of garlic toast.”

“Sylvester Stallone is the Italian Stallion,” Ziva says, “and McGee says that that is the name of a porn film.”

“Not the original name,” Tony says, sounding defeated, then snaps, “shut up about the Italian Stallion, Ziva.” 

She holds her hands up, watching him walk out from the kitchen before walking in to make her plate. “Message received,” she says, scooping spaghetti noodles onto her plate, “shutting up about the Italian Stallion.” 

“Actually, you can talk about the Italian Stallion,” Tony says, and in a shocking twist, stands up and pulls her chair out for her, “just as long as it’s good things.”

She looks at him suspiciously, but sits regardless. “I choose to stay silent about the Italian Stallion,” Ziva says, smirking and taking a bite of spaghetti. “What do you think? Good?”

“What do I think about the Italian Stallion?” Tony asks, deliberately skirting the question, and she narrows her eyes at him. 

Sometimes, he likes to try to puzzle out what Ziva is thinking when she looks at someone like that— he has seen her make that face at suspects before, immediately before doing something completely unpredictable and often prosecutable, but she always seems to get away with it. And he always seems to be wrong about what he was thinking. 

She moves fast, dipping her finger in the spaghetti sauce on her plate and swiping it across his nose, and he is wrong again. “What do you think about the spaghetti, Tony?”

“I think it isn’t very exfoliating,” he says— grumbles, really— and wipes his face off.

“Exfoliating?” she asks, tilting her head to one side and wrinkling her eyebrows, “What is that?”

“It’s like… you shed dead skin and exfoliating helps to get rid of it faster,” he says, taking a bite of spaghetti— it's good, really good, and that only serves to irritate him a little.

“So that is what you should do for your dandruff, then, yes?” she asks— tells him, really— and he scowls.

“Just be quiet and eat your spaghetti,” he tells her, and for the first time ever, she listens.

* * *

“Wait, are you serious?” Tony asks, watching her turn on her TV and plug in a DVD player, “We’re actually going to watch a three hour long Bollywood movie?” 

“You said we would watch  _ Kuch Kuch Hota Hai  _ if we survived,” Ziva says, clapping her hands when the DVD player pops to life, “so, we are watching  _ Kuch Kuch Hota Hai.”  _

“What is it even about?” he asks, passing her the DVD case holding the disc, “and where did you get the DVD?”

“My neighbour is Indian,” Ziva says, sliding the disc into the DVD player and pressing play, “I make  _ latkes  _ or  _ falafel  _ and we watch a Bollywood movie, and she makes  _ sambar  _ or  _ samosas  _ and we watch an Israeli movie. It is a system.” 

“So you borrowed this from her?” he asks, letting her settle into the couch next to him before he takes a risk and drapes an arm across the back of the couch, over her shoulders. 

“Yes,” Ziva says, not swatting his arm away, “and it is about many love triangles.”

“Have you seen it before?” he asks, watching the opening credits and resisting the urge to ask her to fast forward through them. 

“Mmm, about half,” she says, “it is in Hindi, by the way, with subtitles in English. So I hope you can read.”

“Didn’t we already have this conversation?” he asks, tilting his head, “You’re the illiterate one, yeah?”

“No,” she says, and falls into silence as the movie begins to play.

“Oh, is this a sad movie?” he asks, watching the funeral pyre and listening to Ziva groan, “You want to see the Italian Stallion cry?”

“I want the Italian Stallion to be  _ quiet,”  _ she snaps, pinching his side, “pay attention, it is not all sad.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” she says, and puts a finger over his lips before he can open his mouth again, “now, silence.” She trails the finger across his face and down his neck, summoning goosebumps and a ridiculous urge to grab onto her hand and hold, but he stamps it down and watches the movie.

It is good: Bollywood dramatic and pretty costuming with bad wigs and bold choreography, and surprisingly enough, he enjoys it. 

“There’s no antagonist in this movie,” Tony says, watching Rahul and Anjali play basketball at the camp, “why is there no antagonist?”

“Why are you talking, and more importantly, complaining?”

“Movies should have antagonists,” Tony says, gesturing over Ziva’s shoulder. She grabs his hand, though, and he forces himself to hold still. “I mean, there is not a single antagonist here, all the characters are fucking fantastic. I mean, Rahul is kind of a dick, but that happens when you’re a stuck up college student with  _ no  _ observational skills.”

“Tina got all the observational skills,” Ziva says, circling one of her fingers around the tip of his, “and you have got no listening skills.” 

“Disrespectful,” Tony says, “the movie is almost over, anyway, and I can already tell you how it’ll end.”

“Of course you can, because that is how movies like this work,” Ziva says, patting his hand, “French films are not as predictable. This is meant to make you feel good.”

“I don’t know if good is what I’m feeling right now,” Tony says, “I’m still annoyed that there’s no antagonist.” 

“Just consider fate the antagonist, Tony,” Ziva tells him, resting her head against his chest and breathing in.

“Fine. Considering fate,” he says, falling into silence until the ending credits roll. “I really thought we were gonna have a surprise antagonist in Aman.”

“That would be too predictable, Tony,” Ziva says, looking at him entirely too tempting, “and you wouldn't like that, no?”

“Fair enough,” Tony says, squeezing her hand and considering the fact that she has yet to let it drop. He tries to let it go, considers every line crossing thing they have ever done— she has laid down on top of him naked, for starters— but somehow the tips of her fingers against his feels much more intimate. 

“So,” Ziva says, “are you going to come into work on Monday with a bat load of fact about  _ Kuch Kuch Hota Hai  _ to cram down all of our throats?”

“The term is buttload, Ziva,” Tony says, forcing himself to untangle his body from hers, standing up and stretching. His arm has started to feel less sore since Ducky’s treatment and bandaging in NCIS headquarters, and he stretches it experimentally. “And, the answer is, of course, yes. What do you take me for, an amateur?”

“I don’t take you for an amateur in anything,” Ziva says, following his lead and standing up straight.

“And you shouldn’t,” he says, following her to her door and grabbing his coat from the peg Ziva hung it on, “I’m an expert in it all. Especially underwater basket weaving.” 

“Mmm,” Ziva hums by way of reply, “I will expect one for my birthday.”

“When is your birthday?” Tony asks, raising his eyebrows.

“That is none of your business,” she says, patting his chest again, and he blows out a defeated breath. 

“I… um, I had a good time,” he says, nodding, looking carefully at the column of her throat as she swallows, “Abby was right, your cooking is legendary. And  _ Kuch Kuch Hota Hai  _ held up.” 

“And…?” 

“And… you make good company, Ziva,” he admits, his head feeling foggy, and Ziva’s lips part, triggering a domino effect kind of daydream-turned-reality.

He tips his head down and kisses her, lips sliding messily and she gasps, tasting like wine, grabbing onto his forearms and tugging him closer. 

Part of him feels crazy, screams alarm bells, thinks  _ this is how mistakes are made and jobs are lost  _ but then Ziva cards a hand through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, and all of his doubts are forgotten. 

He spins them around, pressing her against the wall that does not have the shoe rack pushed up against it and kissing her harder, tilting her head back with two fingers under her chin before letting his hands drop to her hips, untucking her shirt and feeling heat flushed skin underneath it.

“Tony,” she whispers, tugging at his hair and he lets out an embarrassingly guttural groan, “Tony, I—  _ oh,  _ okay, okay.” 

He catches his teeth on her earlobe and tugs, soft, a breathy little whine wrapping around his eardrums, and he whispers, “what, Ziva?”

“Nothing, nothing just— don’t stop,” she whispers, fingernails digging into his arms— his jacket has ended up one the floor, somehow, but he does not remember when— and he presses his lips to a spot underneath of her jaw, sucking a mark that she will have to explain away on Monday morning.

There is an escalation of movement, a crescendo and a cymbal clap as he pulls her shirt over her head and tosses it to the ground with his jacket, looking at her skin, at scars and calluses and freckles, smoothing a hand over her stomach and feeling the muscles there clench. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the forward facing clasp of her bra and tugging on it with his teeth.

“Mmm, good,” she hums, her head thudding back against the wall as he undoes the clasp of her bra, shaking it down her arms and licking a stripe up the center of her breasts that makes her breath and her chest hitch. 

“Didn’t take you for the praising type,” Tony says, and she looks at him critically, pupils blown wide— that unpredictable look again— before wrapping both hands around the collar of his shirt and ripping it in half, pushing the pieces to the ground as Tony stares at her, dumbfounded. 

“And I did not take you for the type to kiss slow,” she says, kicking the scraps of cloth to the side and pressing her lips to his Adams apple.

“Is that a complaint?” he asks, through the haze of her lips against his skin.

“Almost,” she answers, tripping a wire he did not know he had set, and he grabs her by the shoulders, pushing her backward until she collides again with the wall.

He undoes the button of her cargo pants with one hand, tugging the zipper down unceremoniously and slipping the tips of his fingers past the waistband of her underwear, smoothing his fingers over her skin. “You’re okay with this?” he asks, trying to make himself sound husky, leaning in and pressing a kissing to the spot of soft skin behind her ear.

“Mhm,” she hums, muscles clenching when he lets his fingernails scrape along her hip bone, “just do not tease me.”

“I respect that,” he whispers, and slides his hand down until he finds her clit, circling his fingers over it slowly, watching Ziva press herself harder against the wall, eyes slipping closed, “even though there's a part of me that, to be honest, wants to tease you.”

She whimpers softly, low and almost inaudible, canting her hips towards his hand. “Maybe another time,” she says, “b-but, I will not beg.”

“That a challenge?” he whispers, even though he already knows the answer.

She manages a chuckle, and he speeds up his fingers, the chuckle biting off into a throaty moan, “It’s-it’s a promise, Tony, I do not beg, especially not for you, and—  _ oh!”  _ He cuts her off silently, slipping two fingers into her and crooking them, getting a leg jerk reaction, and she tilts her head back.

“Wanna say that again?” he asks, all haughty confidence that would typically end with him pinned to the floor or smacked on the back of the head, but instead Ziva digs her fingernails into the back of his neck and tugs him down to kiss her.

It feels like fireworks exploding, all over again, and when he pulls away, he dips his head further down, mouthing over her neck and a small scar on her shoulder, twisting his fingers and she moans into open air. All the blood in his body swirls, and something protective and greedy and hungry roars to life in his chest, and he scrapes his teeth along her skin, raising an angry red line.

“How close are you?” he asks, voice low, and Ziva’s eyelids flutter as she looks at him. Her face is flushed and her lips parted, something very needy looking in her eyes, and he loves her like this, can already feel himself getting addicted to her and the look in her eyes. 

“Tony, I-I won’t beg,” she says, and her voice comes out breathy, halfway to run out.

“I’m not asking you to,” he says, moving his hand faster and watching her catch her bottom lip in between her teeth, eyes squeezing shut, “I asked how close you are.”

“N-Not far.”

“You look good like this,” he tells her, and means it, a small whimpering noise coming from deep in her throat. “Have you thought about this before?” 

_ “Tony,”  _ she says, half scolding, half shock, “big ego, hmm?”

“Considering where you are right now,” he says, biting at her neck, “I would say the ego is justified.”

“Is—  _ fuck—  _ is ego ever really justified?” she chokes out, tipping her head back and digging her nails into his arm, “Tony, d-don’t stop.”

“Answer my question.”

“Fine, yes, just— just do not stop,” she says, a grinding admission, and he picks up the pace of his fingers, circling his thumb against her clit and covers her mouth with his as she comes. She tilts into it, kissing him shakily and making his skin vibrate with the moans she lets spill into his mouth, her hands tangling into his hair, fingernails scraping harsh against his scalp. 

She comes down with a sigh, breathing heavy and breaking away from the kiss. He looks at her, swollen lips and pupils blown wide, her cheeks and chest covered with a blood red blush that he is sure matches the raised bumps on his arms where her fingernails created half moons. 

“You’ve thought about this before?” he asks, pulling his fingers from her gently and sticking his hands in her back pockets. She chuckles, but leans into him, legs shaking.

“Briefly,” she answers, pressing a quick, open mouthed kiss to his bottom lip, “and you can't say that you haven't, either, Tony.”

He furrows his brow, and considers dropping to his knees to distract her, but instead says, “what do you mean?”

“We wouldn’t have ended up here if you had not thought about it,” is all she says by way of explanation, before she pushes him backwards softly, “and I do not think that that, against the wall, is all you have thought about.”

She is not wrong— their undercover mission had poisoned the well of his late night thoughts— and Ziva had appeared randomly and without much reason, once wearing nothing but his Ohio State letterman jacket, and he has spent more than enough time convincing himself that it meant nothing.

She spares him from answering by curling a hand around his jaw, tugging him down and kissing him hard. They stumble backwards, catching his heel on the corner of Ziva’s bookshelf and groaning out the pain into her mouth.

When his back collides with the door, he pulls his hands from her hips long enough to scramble for the doorknob, twisting it open and gasping as he nearly falls over himself as she pushes him backwards into the bedroom. 

Somehow, he expected the room to look different, like they have entered an alternate dimension, the two of them, but it looks exactly the same: books, piano, laundry hamper, bed. He barely has time to take it in, though, before Ziva is kissing him again, tongue dancing with his, and he catches her bottom lip between his teeth messily.

He breaks away from the kiss and lets Ziva walk him all the way backwards, until the back of his legs hit the edge of her bed and he lets gravity pull him down. Her mattress is soft— like memory foam, something expensive— but her skin against his palm is softer, goosebumps raising along the stretch of her stomach as he traces his hands over it.

“You’re really hot,” he whispers, before he can stop himself, and he ducks to press a kiss underneath her breast.

She lets out a hissing exhale. “I always knew you thought that,” she replies, and crawls into his lap, knees bracketing either side of his hips and she smirks, “you’re hot too, or else we would not be here.”

“You only value me for my body, Ziva?” he asks, laughter in his tone, and kisses at her neck. 

The scoff she lets out is wavering as her fingernails dig into the wings of his shoulders. “Not just that,” she says, “you are also sort of funny. And you smell good—”

“— and I’m good in bed,” he adds, lips brushing against her neck as he speaks. There is a purple mark on the skin underneath of his lips, and there is a high probability that McGee will ask about it Monday morning, narrowing his eyes suspiciously and tilting his head like he is trying to figure it out, figure her out, but he will get nowhere.

Ziva makes a breathy noise of disapproval and rocks forward on her knees, pushing at his chest. He falls backwards, back hitting the mattress, and Ziva wraps slim fingers around his wrists. She is looking at him deviously, eyes narrowed and lips curled up into a smirk, and she rolls her hips into his, effectively sending his mind spinning.

“Playing dirty, David?” he asks, hissing against the friction, the kinetic energy of her moving, pressed against him.

“I thought the expression was playing messy,” she says, and slides down his body, undoing the button of his jeans and pulling them down. He helps her out, kicking his jeans off and stretching his wrists. She pulls her pants off— neither of them had even bothered to button them back up after she had gotten off against the wall— and she kicks them backwards, in the general direction of the laundry hamper.

She blocks his view of her nightstand, and even though he wants to sit up and look, he closes his eyes and waits to hear the drawer close. 

She plants a hand against his chest, and he opens his eyes. She is holding the foil packet of a condom between her fingers, and he smirks up at her, reaching for it. She lifts her hand, though, holding it out of his reach, and he chuckles.

“You're making power plays now?” he asks, and she scrapes her nails against his skin. His muscles tighten, but his stomach coils regardless.

“Aren't I always?” she replies, smiling devilishly. She leans down, and bites softly at his cheekbone, of all places. “Be honest, Tony, you know you love it.”

He laughs softly, deep in his chest, and finds her hips with his palms. She bites at his earlobe, tugging on it with her teeth in a way that makes his entire body clench up, and he takes the opportunity to hook his leg over hers, rolling them over.

She grunts, unladylike, and he tilts down to nip at her jaw. “W-Who is playing dirty now, hmm?” she asks, tilting her head backwards to allow his easier access, one of her hands curling into the hair on the back of his head.

“I thought it was playing messy,” he jokes, and pulls away from her skin to look at her. Her neck is marked up, purple and red, and her skin is flushed pink in a way that makes him want to memorize her entire body with his lips. 

“What?” she asks, voice breathy, uncharacteristically girlish.

“I just… you’re really beautiful,” he says, like an admission, and smooths a hand down her side.

She looks at him suspiciously, but smiles anyway. “Thank you,” she says, and nods, “thank you.”

He laughs, softly, and hooks his fingers into her underwear, tugging them down and slipping two fingers back into her. She gasps softly, and lets her eyes flutter closed, entirely too tempting. “How many languages can you say thank you in?” he asks, and she huffs shakily.

“T-Ten,” she answers, voice skipping as he curls his fingers inside of her, “we have been over this.”

“Do it,” he says, unsure of where the command comes from, and she looks at him strangely, like she is thinking it over. “Say thank you in all of them. Not to me, or for me, just to prove that you can.” 

He does not expect her to, he expects her to let it go, pass through her ears like he has said nothing at all, but then she gets that look of unpredictability on her face, and she takes a deep breath.  _ “Gracias, grazie, shukraan lak, merci, danke,  _ _ sağol, s-spasibo,”  _ she manages, halting and filled with lapses of silence, before her legs jerk as she comes, and he tilts down and kisses her neck as he works her through it. 

“I kind of can't believe you went along with that,” he says, pulling away from her. She lets out a breathy laugh, and tugs him down, tricking him into thinking she is going to kiss him again just before she hooks her leg over his hip, flipping them over and knocking the breath out of his lungs.

“I went along with your thank you scheme,” she says, reaching over his shoulder for the condom she had abandoned earlier, “because it would distract you long enough to wind up like this.” 

“You could have just told me that you want to be on top,” he says, trying to catch his breath as she tugs his boxers down, scraping her fingernails against the coarse hairs on his lower stomach, making him hiss. “Instead of the espionage and theatrics.” 

“Espionage and theatrics are much more fun,” she answers, rolling the condom on and sinking onto him. 

It is so good— too good, addictive— and he skates his hand up her body, feeling the muscles of her stomach clench as she moves against him.

She traces a finger down the center of his chest, smiling down at him faintly. “Have you had a good night, Tony?” she asks, voice light. 

“Very,” he says, hands fluttering to her hips, fingers pressing into the soft skin there. She makes a little sighing noise, half dreamy, and flattens her palm against his chest. “W-Why do you ask?” 

“Filling the silence,” she explains, and gasps when Tony snaps his hips into hers, lurching her forward like a ship tossed on the sea. “Okay, okay.” 

“You’re beautiful,” he blurts out, watching her mouth fall halfway open before she shuts it, eyes drifting closed, “stupid beautiful.” 

“Stupid beautiful?” she asks, “isn’t that… contradictory?” 

“No, it’s— fuck, I-I’ll explain it later,” he says, jerking when she curls her fingernails into the skin on his chest, “promise.” 

“Just do not call me stupid,” she tells him, and pats his cheek, smirking down at him mischievously. 

He responds with a snort of a laugh, before grabbing at her hips, thrusting up into her hard. She gasps, eyes fluttering open wide and jaw dropping, reaching out and fisting her hand into the blankets beside Tony’s head. 

He does it again, watching as her face twists, eyes squeezing closed, and she breathes out, “T-Tony,” in a tone that makes his brain go fuzzy as he slips his hand between her legs, rubbing circles against her clit. 

“C’mon, Ziva,” he whispers, and she collapses forward, the arm that was holding her up giving out. She buries her face in his neck, biting softly at his shoulder, and he groans at the hot pleasure it sends down his spine. “C’mon, come on, I know— I know you’re close, come for me, come on.” 

_ “Tony,”  _ she whispers, coming around him, digging her nails into his shoulders, forearms, her breath fanning heat against his skin.

He groans out, breathing into the sting of her fingernails, when she circles her hips, and he trips forward into a release he did not know he needed until tonight. 

* * *

Ziva wakes up curled into Tony's side, one of his arms stretching along the width of her bed, pinned underneath of her, and she tries not to panic. 

She has never been one to lean into irrationality, to favour the whimsical, but there is a feeling spinning in her stomach that she does not— cannot— ignore, and she reaches forward, smoothing her thumb along the cut of Tony’s jaw. 

He needs to shave, stubble scraping against the sensitive skin of her fingers, but she smiles regardless. He looks calmer when he sleeps. Less responsibility, less stress, less bad guys and less bullets. 

She presses her lips to the underside of his jaw, right where the bone ends, and lets herself linger. She pulls away, though, gasping softly and blinking quickly when he stirs, making a small noise deep in his chest that rumbles up through his throat. She feels it against her lips. 

“Ziva?” he whispers, shifting to look at her, and she tries not to fall heading in love with the sleepy way he says her name, first thing, when he wakes up. 

“Hi,” she whispers back, “I am sorry I woke you, I didn’t mean to do it.”

“No, isn’t okay, I— aww,” he drawls, looking at her and blinking, the corners of his lips lifting up in a smile, “you have a cute bed head.” 

She crinkles her eyebrows, eyes narrowing. “Bed head,” she repeats, “what is that?” 

“Your hair is all messed up,” he says, and runs a hand through it, scratching at her scalp. It sends tingles down her skin, and she closes her eyes, sinking into the feeling of his hand working through her hair, sighing happily. 

He chuckles, and does it again. “You like that, huh?” he asks, and she is too sleep clouded, too content to argue with his self satisfied, egotistical tone. 

“Mhm,” she hums instead, resting her head against her pillow, letting him comb his fingers through her hair, undoing the tangles and scratching against her scalp gently. 

“Hey,” he whispers, hand slipping from her hair to cup her jaw, tilting her head up. She lets her eyes open, looking up at him sleepily. His ministrations with her scalp had been enough to almost lull her back to sleep, and when she looks at him again, it is through her lashes. “I should probably get going.”

“Mm-mm,” she protests, and braces a hand against his chest— she had ripped his shirt in half, she remembers, and the only other thing he has is a heavy winter jacket— tucking her face into his neck, below his jaw. She is so much smaller than him, and she rarely has a chance to notice, because she rarely feels small. And she does not feel small now, not really, more… safe. Comfortable. Like she belongs. “Stay.” 

“Ziva—” 

“You stay,” she says, closing her eyes and kissing his chest, “you’re warm, you stay.” 

He makes a noise, something between defeat and contentment, and she feels his arms wrap around her. He shifts, pulling her on top of his chest— he is laying flat on his back now, her body slotted over his and their legs tangled together. 

She knows that they cannot do this again. That Monday will be a return to normalcy. That glances in hallways and alone time in elevators can hold no weight. 

She knows that eventually, she will make  _ aliyah—  _ will go back home to Israel, to her father, to Mossad, to the headstones that have become her family. 

But, right now, Tony smells like Old Spice and peppermint, and as he settles her blanket over their shoulders, she cannot help but think that this is the warmest she has ever been in her life.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO much for reading! If you enjoyed, leave a kudos, and it you really enjoyed then leave a comment, they make my cat respect me. Also, wish Bhargavi a happy birthday! Thanks again <3


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